


Aftermath

by anr



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-03-26
Updated: 2004-03-26
Packaged: 2017-11-05 16:12:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/408416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anr/pseuds/anr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>It shouldn't hurt.</i> T'Pol apologises.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aftermath

**Author's Note:**

> Post- _Damage_ (3x19), spoiler-fic

You had known, even from the beginning, that things would not be the same when all was said and done. That your actions (while well-intentioned) were not without risk and, as such, were open to repercussions.

That you had failed to recognise the extent of such consequences was, perhaps, an unfortunate testament to the Trellium D's influence. It was not, however, an excuse and when all really _was_ said and done, you had always known that it would be up to you to make the amends.

No matter how... difficult... some of those amendments would be.

"Yeah."

His answer to the door chime holds little invitation but you've always taken whatever you can from him, no matter how small. And even now, days later, with the taste of him still on your tongue, with his touch still lingering on your body, it is obvious that little about that has changed.

You enter silently, unsurprised to see him seated at his console (the ship's engines will be at less than full efficiency for some time; you'd be surprised only if he didn't focus on them day and night).

"Commander."

"Sub Commander."

His politeness startles you just a little but you're careful not to show it and instead state the reason for your visit.

"I wish to apologise for--"

A flash of emotion on his features. Your apology fades as you wait for the inevitable outburst, for his trademark volatility. You know it will be no less than what you deserve.

"For what?" he prompts instead and again his tone surprises you. "Usin' me? Lyin' to me?"

The words are what you expected; the monotone is not. You can't help but correct him. "Lying would suggest a malicious intent to deceive. I merely chose not to inform you of my actions."

A slight noise of disbelief but nothing further. You consider his emotional restraint to be almost exceptional... and know that it is also, perhaps, the first time you've ever wished it to be otherwise.

Unsettled, you return to your apology. "It was never my intention to hurt you."

"Yeah," he says. "You're a real Oppenheimer."

The reference eludes you. "Commander?"

"Never mind." He taps the screen in front of him. "Was there anythin' else?"

"Yes." _Can you not look at me? Yell at me? Forgive me?_ "Will I see you tomorrow?"

"It's a small ship."

"I was referring to our neuropressure schedule. Wednesday's--"

"No."

You straighten instinctively. "My... addiction... to Trellium D is a recent occurrence. It would be illogical to terminate our sessions based on--"

He moves so quickly, is out of his chair and in your face so abruptly, that you almost take a step back. Almost.

"First time we ever laid hands on each other," he says slowly, carefully, eyes now meeting yours, "was just after I'd taken a swim through a sewage pipe full of that shit."

You blink, surprised. "A coincidence only. I was not affected then."

"You'll forgive me if I don't believe you."

"You no longer trust my judgement?"

He doesn't reply.

Irrationally, you push the issue. "The sessions were helping you to--"

"I got enough fodder in my head for bad dreams, Sub Commander. It would be illogical," the word twists in his mouth, "of me to add to the collection."

You don't flinch. You're Vulcan. Such reactions are... controllable. But of its own volition your hand rises to his face. To the sneer on his lips that you'd like nothing more than to smooth away.

And you want to remind him that Vulcans are not emotionless drones, that your feelings have always been there (albeit repressed). You want to tell him that what you feel for him has nothing to do with the Trellium D and everything to do with who you are and who he is. That the substance merely stripped you of your control; it could not create something that didn't already exist.

That still exists.

His hand intercepts before you can make contact. Fingers clenching around yours with such strength...

It shouldn't hurt. Vulcan versus human physiology meant it _couldn't_ hurt.

"I _am_ sorry," you say quietly.

"No more than I."

Then he releases you and steps back and you watch him return to his console. Rank notwithstanding, you know that you have just been dismissed. In more ways than one.

You leave his quarters as quietly as you had arrived and, in the corridor, pause to stare at your hand. As you had known it would be, it's fine. No bruises or markings of any kind. No evidence whatsoever of his touch.

Impossible, then, that you should still feel it. That it should ache.

And that it should not be the only part of you to do so. 

  


* * *

The End

**Author's Note:**

> ORIGINAL URL: <http://anr.livejournal.com/120607.html>


End file.
